‘And lose another.’
‘Yours or mine?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Mine, of course.’ He turned to her. ‘I’m to leave the siege and go east to watch Tamerlane. When I return, there’ll be a new heir.’
‘Am I to go with you?’
Suleyman shook his head. ‘You are to be imprisoned but released from marriage to me.’
Anna frowned. ‘And if I don’t want to be released?’
Suleyman glanced at her. ‘What you want is immaterial. My father forbids the marriage.’ He looked at his hands. ‘And you still love another.’
‘He is married. I am annulled.’
‘Yes, he is married. A Spaniard arrived from Tamerlane. He told us that Tamerlane’s mood had not been improved by the refusal of a woman to marry him because she was already married to another: a Varangian. It seems he is still alive but has chosen someone other than you.’
Suleyman looked away. The garden was losing substance, its content merging into different shades of black. Anna rose and walked to the balcony on which she had draped her shawl. She put it over her shoulders and held it to her front with one hand, the other resting on the stone. She’d been shocked by this latest proof of Luke’s desertion and needed time to compose herself. She studied the bowed head of the man before her, broken by his love for her. She had dared to hope that news of Luke’s marriage was false. Now she knew it to be true.
She said: ‘You’ll take an army with you?’
‘Half the army.’
‘And Constantinople?’
‘The siege will go on. But without cannon, it can’t be taken. So only half the army need remain.’
Anna nodded slowly, considering this. ‘Half the army is a lot of soldiers. What would your father have you do in the east?’
‘Stay within our borders. Watch Tamerlane’s every move and not let him get between us and our new allies.’
‘And what if you strayed beyond your borders? What if you brought new territory into the Empire?’
Suleyman glanced up at her. Was this Zoe or Anna speaking? ‘Then I would be disobeying orders,’ he said carefully.
‘Which your father must be getting used to.’ She paused. ‘It would strengthen your position. No one puts a hero to the bowstring.’
Suleyman straightened. He looked at her for a long while and then, for the first time, smiled. He rose to leave. ‘What a Valide Sultan you’d have made.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
QARABAGH, OCTOBER 1400
As Bayezid had predicted, that autumn Tamerlane moved his army into its winter camp in the high valleys of the Qarabagh, west of the great Hazar denizi Sea, and not a man within it knew where he planned to go next.
The land was shaped as a kidney bean and bordered on three sides by the mountains of the Great Kirs, where dense forests of oak, hornbeam and beech rose up to white-barked birch and meadows of startling green. It was a place of streams and lakes and rolling pasture. It provided good hunting and clear air where an eagle might spot its prey a mile distant. It was a place, so the army hoped, of rest before the onslaught began.
But the signs were not good. A large Ottoman army under Prince Suleyman had moved east and taken Armenia, which bordered Georgia, a vassal state to Tamerlane. Moreover, a year past, the Georgian King Giorgi had revolted and his punishment could not be delayed to the spring. So the army sharpened its swords, looked to the battered fur of its deels and wondered if Temur himself would lead them into Georgia that winter.
However, it wasn’t Tamerlane but Mohammed Sultan who led fifty thousand men into the Land of the Golden Fleece. It was the Prince’s first command, a gift from his grandfather to reward and test him. It was the fourth time that a Mongol army had had to invade the troublesome country and Mohammed Sultan was told to make it the last.
King Giorgi was little older than Mohammed Sultan and had already garnered a reputation for daring. He’d led an army to the rescue of his ally Emir Ahmed of Azerbaijan, besieged in the city of Alanjiq, and put Miran Shah to flight. Now he was harbouring Ahmed’s son Prince Tahir at his court in Tiflis and, despite Tamerlane’s repeated demands, had refused to give him up.
Instead he sent gifts. Envoys had arrived in the meadows of the Qarabagh carrying gold coins struck in the Emperor’s name, a thousand horses, vessels of gold, silver and crystal, crates of silk and a balas ruby the size of a walnut.
But Tamerlane remembered similar gifts from the King’s father, Bagrat, after the last invasion, including a coat of mail said to have been forged by the Prophet David. The King had converted to Islam, declaring, as was required: ‘La ilaha illa’llah Mohammedan rasul’ Allah,’ and all his court had knelt and done the same. But once the Lord of the Seven Climes had left, Bagrat had recanted. Now Mohammed Sultan was to wipe away this unsightly stain of Christianity from the cloak of Islam once and for all.
Tamerlane’s heir led the army into a country of peaks, gorges, valleys and torrents where spies reported his progress from every hilltop and villages emptied before them, their inhabitants taking their last ear of corn into the mountains behind. But he didn’t burn everything to the ground as his grandfather had done. He didn’t fire the Georgians’ homes and desecrate their churches. He didn’t send spies ahead to spread terror. Instead, he invited the villagers to return to their homes and live in peace under Mongol rule.
Luke was responsible for this, helped in large part by Shulen. He showed to her the stream of logic and she led Mohammed Sultan to drink from it. It helped, of course, that the Prince was in love with her. Every day, she rode beside him at the head of the army, deep in conversation, and when the army retired at night, their murmurs could be heard above the mournful qavvali of the Sufi pirs who never slept.
The soldiers didn’t like it and there was soon grumbling about the lack of pillage. But Mohammed promised them greater booty when they reached the capital Tiflis. And so it happened: they took the city and found living inhabitants better able to say where they’d hidden their treasure than dead ones.
The terrain of Georgia suited Luke and the Varangians’ kind of soldiering. They’d been trained by their fathers in the mountains of Mistra and knew how to make the terrain their friend. Each was given a qoshun of fifty men to command and they soon made names for themselves for the daring of their night raids. Luke began to be included in the evening briefings when the Mongol generals would gather round the map with Mohammed Sultan, and his advice was sought more and more.
One night when he returned late to the Varangians’ tent from a briefing, Matthew was still awake. ‘Is there any limit to your talent, old friend?’ he asked through a yawn.
Luke was removing his armour. He was very tired. He wanted to sleep as deeply as Nikolas and Arcadius were sleeping.
But Matthew had propped himself up on an elbow. ‘You seem to be able to do anything you set your mind to. You’ll leave us behind.’
It had been coming. Luke rubbed his eyes. ‘How so?’
‘Well, you’re best friends with Temur’s heir. You’ll be given a command soon – more than a qoshun. He has you at every briefing.’
It was true that he was the only Varangian invited to the briefings. He laughed. ‘Are you jealous, Matthew?’
His friend lay back on the rolled tunic that served for a pillow. He’d not laughed. ‘Of course not.’ He was silent for a while. Then he asked: ‘When you ride together, what do you talk about?’
Luke shrugged. ‘Everything. He’s interested in everything.’ He turned to his oldest friend. He’d never seen him jealous. ‘Matthew, I have to befriend him,’ he said quietly.
Matthew asked: ‘Has he told you where the army’s going? I mean after this?’
Luke shook his head. ‘Only Tamerlane knows that.’
Matthew grunted. He rolled over and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. Very soon he was either asleep or pretending to be. But Luke lay awake, deep in thought.
*
It soon became apparent
that Mohammed Sultan had a problem. He hadn’t brought the Georgian army to battle. Mongol patrols fanned out across the frozen country and soon word came back that King Giorgi had taken refuge with his army in the cave city of Vardzia, a hundred miles north-west of Tiflis.
Vardzia was a warren of houses, palaces and churches built into the side of a mountain. The only way into it was through a tunnel that led up from the River Mtkvari below. It was said to be impregnable.
They reached Vardzia in a blizzard. Through the driving snow, it was difficult to see the thirteen storeys of cave dwellings that pitted the side of Mount Erusheli, and impossible to see the row upon row of terraced farmland built into the slopes below that sustained it. The army set up camp and wondered what to do.
That evening, the briefing was subdued. ‘Queen Tamar designed it well,’ said the Prince, looking up at the faces gathered round the map. ‘It’s too high for scaling ladders and too deep for siege engines. There’s an underground spring and the army has food for a year. We can’t get at them.’ He turned to Luke. ‘My generals suggest the usual assault which, if it even succeeds, will kill most of the army. Have you any ideas?’
Luke studied the plan of the cave city drawn up by the army’s engineers. In many ways it resembled the villages he’d designed and built in Chios and the problem was similar: how to dislodge an enemy holding the advantages of height and limitless cover. He thought hard. Then it came to him. The difference here was that there was something above. There was high ground above the caves. ‘Baskets,’ he said.
Mohammed Sultan frowned. ‘Baskets, Luke? Is the campaigning too much for you?’
‘No, I’m serious, lord. We make baskets and put archers into each. We lower the baskets down from the top of the mountain and the archers shoot flaming arrows into the caves.’ He paused and looked at the Prince. ‘We smoke them out, highness.’
*
And so it happened.
Luke led a hazara of a thousand archers a mile downstream of the Mtkvari River to a ford where they crossed and then began the ascent around the back of Mount Erusheli. They climbed through thick pine forest, then scree, carrying baskets of saplings bound by leather, and the pulleys to lower them. At the top, they found the plateau empty of sentries and the archers rested while the engineers erected the pulleys. Then, three to a basket, they began to lower them.
Luke was in the first basket with two archers and a bucket of burning pitch. The archers’ arrowheads were wrapped in pitch-soaked hessian. The pulleys had been coated in grease but still squeaked with each lurching drop. Luke held his breath, eyeing the flames beside him and praying that no sudden gust of wind would upset the container. Below them, the sheer side of the mountain fell into an abyss with rocks below. The hand that held his dragon sword was wet with tension.
Silently, silently they came level with the highest caves and saw that the Georgians had barricaded their mouths with defences of wood, straw and mud packed tightly together. There was no sign of any soldiers. Luke looked out to see that the other baskets had reached the caves. He saw Nikolas in one, peering nervously over the side. Matthew and Arcadius were above, waiting to come down next. He raised his sword and turned to the men beside him. ‘Light your arrows,’ he whispered.
The arrowheads were lowered into the flames.
His sword dropped and he yelled: ‘Fire!’
A hundred flaming arrows flew through the air and struck the barricades. Within moments, the fires had spread inside the caves and smoke was billowing out. The Mongol archers had covered their noses and mouths with masks and were able to keep firing. Soon, flaming Georgians were jumping to their deaths.
But the Georgians in the caves below had seen what was happening. They threw aside the barricades and fired up into the baskets. Luke had thought of this. He’d had each basket padded with thick mattresses and the Georgian arrows thudded into straw. He looked up to see more more baskets coming down the mountainside with Matthew in the first. ‘Hurry!’ he yelled.
The Georgians below had recovered and the arrows now coming at them were aflame. The basket next to Luke’s was set ablaze and three Mongols, fire covering every part of them, fell through the air.
Luke looked up. ‘Faster, Matthew!’ he shouted. ‘And swing into the cave-mouths when you get level!’
Already Luke and his companions were pushing and pulling the sides of their basket, trying to get near enough to jump into the caves. Others were doing the same. Then they were close enough.
‘Jump!’ yelled Luke and he launched himself into the air, his arms flailing, landing inches from where the cave fell into nothing. He threw himself forward, his hands clawing the sand. An archer landed beside him and grabbed his tunic, pulling him in. Then he drew his bow and fired and Luke heard a scream from inside the cave. The other archer landed.
There were a dozen Georgian soldiers in front of them, their shields locked, burning debris all around.
Luke leapt to his feet. ‘Charge!’ He raised his sword and ran forward, the two archers behind him. The dragon head flashed and came down on a shield, breaking it in two. He raised it again and smashed open a helmet. He swung it to left and right and men fell before it. The sword was possessed by demons; it had a will of its own.
By now, there were others behind him and the shield-wall was backing away, slowly at first and then in panic. A hole opened behind them and the Georgians were jumping through it to the next level down. Luke followed them.
Below were more soldiers, most trying to escape through a tunnel at the back. They turned but it was too late. Luke was on top of them, hacking and stabbing and pushing the dying out of his way. He looked round to see Arcadius at the mouth of the cave. He was grinning. ‘It’s working!’
It was. The Georgians were in full retreat, running into the tunnels that would join with the main one down to the Mtkvari River. The Varangians followed them as far as the junction, then went back up to the mouth of the cave. They looked out to see hundreds of baskets coming down to pour more Mongols into the battle. Smoke was billowing into the air at every level. The cries of pain echoed from deep inside the mountain behind them. Luke felt a hand on his arm. ‘Matthew! Not hurt?’
His oldest friend shook his head. ‘No more than anyone else. We’ve lost hardly a man.’
In an hour, it was over and the Georgians had sued for peace. Luke and his friends emerged from the tunnel at the bottom to find Mohammed Sultan and Shulen watching lines of Georgian prisoners being led away. The Prince put his arm around Luke’s shoulder, drawing him to one side.
‘Your victory, my friend,’ he said, smiling. ‘And we’ll not slaughter the prisoners as we usually do. It seems that word had reached them of our clemency so they were happy to surrender.’
Luke glanced back at his friends. ‘All four of us took part, lord,’ he said quietly. ‘You should congratulate Matthew especially. He led the second wave.’
The Prince nodded. ‘I will. And then we march back to the Qarabagh without delay. The men need rest.’
‘And Prince Giorgi?’
‘He escaped with Prince Tahir. I’ve not ordered a pursuit. He’ll know these mountains better than we.’ Mohammed Sultan called for his horse. He turned with his foot in the stirrup. ‘You’ll return to a hero’s welcome, Luke. My grandfather will be pleased.’
*
But the welcome they received was not what they’d expected.
News of the baskets had preceded the army and by the time Mohammed Sultan, the four Varangians and Shulen presented themselves to Tamerlane, he knew the story well. To begin with, the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction was jovial. ‘Baskets!’ he chuckled, his glasses bobbing up and down on his nose. ‘You had my army weaving baskets?’
It was a stratagem even Tamerlane would have been proud of but Mohammed Sultan would take none of the credit. He was on his knees in his grandfather’s castle-tent and beside him knelt Luke. He gestured to him. ‘It was Luke’s idea, Grandfather. We do not have King Giorgi b
ut his country has sworn vassalage.’
Tamerlane’s face darkened. ‘No Giorgi? What about Prince Tahir? Did you capture him?’
Mohammed Sultan shook his head. ‘Lord, he fled to Suleyman who was still in Armenia.’
‘But who has now returned to Bayezid, who already gives refuge to his father Ahmed.’
Miran Shah, whose advisers had shouldered the blame for the plot against Tamerlane and unshouldered their heads in consequence, now said: ‘Bayezid has allied himself with the Mamluks and Qara Yusuf of the Black Sheep. Your spies have said it, Father. He gets stronger.’
Tamerlane’s spies were numberless, nameless and ruthless. He had informers in every court – itinerant monks, strolling vagabonds, physicians, procuresses – all of whom used the empire’s courier to send news to their emperor every day.
‘Perhaps’, said Mohammed Sultan tentatively, ‘it is therefore time to strike Bayezid before he can link up with the Mamluks? Their combined army would be very great.’
Tamerlane grunted. Then a smile spread across his lips. ‘Would you like me to read you the letter I’m sending Bayezid?’ he asked.
Mohammed Sultan exchanged a glance with Shulen. Had Tamerlane taken his lessons further in their absence?
The Emperor adjusted his spectacles and, very slowly, read the letter:
‘Since the ship of your unfathomable ambition has been shipwrecked in the abyss of self-love, it would be wise for you to lower the sails of your rashness and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of sincerity, which is also the port of safety, lest by the tempest of our vengeance you should perish in the sea of punishment which you deserve.’
Tamerlane looked at Shulen, his two eyes huge behind the spectacles. ‘Well, is it good, teacher? Or is there too much water?’
Shulen spread her hands before her. ‘Lord, you are magnificent.’
Miran Shah was now looking at Mohammed Sultan, mischief in his eyes. ‘We will have, of course, the news of what you did in Georgia to spread terror west. How many Georgians did you kill, do you think, nephew?’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 28
